Tattered
by BlackBandit111
Summary: He is alone. He has accepted he will always be alone. Post 5X13. Spoilers, no slash.


He is alone.

It's the first coherent thought that can pass through his mind. He's alone, now. All alone.

When the numbness comes, he isn't sure if he is grateful or afraid. Perhaps a bit of both. He doesn't care enough to think about it. He is alone.

Two months. He is gone two months, mourning, screaming on the inside, his sorrow eating away his soul. Always hiding, hiding in his house, hiding in the shadows- but of the shadows of memories or the shadows of destiny, he'll never know.

He returns. It's a painful, long journey, a forgotten tread that aches when it is recalled. He walks the path he's walked hundreds of times before, alone or not, and he can't help the darkness that creeps into his heart. He'll walk it alone from now on, no one to follow him in resolute step and no one to stand alongside him. He tries to take a deep breath and finds himself suffocating- but he doesn't know from what.

He's sorry. He is so, so sorry. He haunts the halls, merely a thin veil of what he used to be resting over his body to trick others. He knows somehow though that people are not fooled. He does not know why he came back, without purpose, without companionship. All alone. He is sorry he was not quick enough.

He travels to the one place he knows he can feel something amongst the loneliness- in this sea of people, he is drowning. His loneliness presses him on all sides. He sits in the sand, not heeding the cold water soaking his boots and scarcely caring about ruining them. Who is there to care if they tatter?

He waits. He waits, watching as his friends fall prey to time, mourning each with a sorrow that would tear even the strongest to shreds. He waits because he still holds hope somehow that he will fulfil what he has already failed. He waits and observes because he can do nothing to prevent his friends' departure from this world, and he swallows with difficulty. If he is swallowing a sob or swallowing painful recollections, he cannot tell.

He waits. He waits because he has nothing else to do; he waits because he can do nothing else. He has no purpose but to sit idle and watch. It drives him from his head at times that he can do nothing. So he waits.

No one comes. Seasons pass, clocks break from from use, all worn out and tired. He is tired like the clocks that hang and fall from his walls. Fashions of the eras come and go and still no one arrives.

He waits. He waits years and years, never changing, just so he could see the look on his best friend's face when he says, astonished, "you haven't changed at all!"

No one comes. His hopes are abashed time and time again but he is still patiently awaiting.

He is there an eternity. He falls deeper and deeper into his despair, nothing left, no one there to help. He doesn't know who to go to; who could help? What would he say to them? How would he even tell the person all he'd been through?

He is still alone. He has accepted he will always be alone. The thought, no matter how sad, cannot seem to be truer. He embraces it. He makes one last trip to the lake, to say his final goodbyes and apologies. He sits in the sand, fisting it, puts his feet in the water with his boots still on. New boots since last time but still relatively old. They are wrinkled and worn. He doesn't care if they tatter. No one does.

When the numbness finds him again, he is not afraid. The feeling he is experiencing cannot be described as gratefulness though. He closes his eyes, feeling himself drift- he's fading. He's let go.

He is too far gone to respond to the call, although he hears.

The voice is panicked, strained and tear filled, and oh so familiar. "Merlin...stay with me."

He is suddenly aware he is in someone's arms, the strong limbs circling around his back. There is hot breath against his neck, and little droplets of water land on his cheeks. It wasn't raining when he last had his eyes open- it couldn't have been that long ago, and the day had been sunny. Something wet lands on his lips, and he licks them to rid them of the moisture. Salty. Tears.

He is wheezing for breath now; he can hear his labored pants. This is when the prophecy makes sense. _Everything_ makes sense now. Albion's greatest trial...was his own death. He is unafraid.

A smile graces the pale, cracked lips, and a reply somehow forces itself out, making itself known. This was important, this sentence, these words. Because his best friend didn't forget all about him and didn't give up on him. This man, holding him, now- this was the man he devoted his life to, the reason he waited all those years. Just to get a glimpse of blue eyes under blonde hair, and tan skin and shining armor glinting in the sun. Memories of laughter and joy and happiness echoed throughout his mind then, memories he had not had in forever and had sorely missed. Recollections of camaraderie by the campfire and playful banters through deserted hallways filled his mind's eye; and somehow through the thickness in his throat he managed a weak response. "Thank you, Arthur."

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_Review?_


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